


Troubled Times

by CatsWhiskers



Series: Passages Of Time [2]
Category: Gardens of Time
Genre: F/M, Romance, humour., timetravel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 03:56:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/819700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatsWhiskers/pseuds/CatsWhiskers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Alistair discovers that his troubles are only just beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Troubled Times (1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alistair discovers that his troubles are only just beginning.

Alistair had thought (if indeed he had given the matter much consideration) that his rescue of Aeschine from the pirates had in itself resolved a very nasty situation.  If anyone had asked, he would have said that there was nothing else that could have been done, and that there could not possibly be any problems arising from his actions.

_And how wrong I would have been._

He stares at himself in the shaving mirror.  Surely those deep shadows under his eyes had not been there until recently?

Until  the advent of Aeschine, in fact.

He sighs, and begins to lather his face.

 

-o0o-

 

The first of his many problems began as soon as Aeschine reappeared on the lawn with Eleanor.  The young woman was now wearing a gown which he recognised as one which Eleanor herself had worn until a few seasons ago, and was scarcely recognisable as the verminous ragamuffin he had only met a few hours ago.

He began to take his leave.

Eleanor interrupted him.

“You are, I trust, taking your _little friend_ with you?”

It had been many years since Eleanor had had him at a disadvantage.

“With me? I – I thought she could stay with you, Eleanor – that you would offer her a home. She can’t stay with me – I’m a single man and it would be most –“

Eleanor Lansing Purlieu drew herself up to her full height.

“And she is certainly not staying here. Not for a single night.”

Richard said wickedly “Well, there’s always room in my humble abode.  Not much room, I grant you, but I’m sure that the young woman and I can come to _some_ arrangement.”

“ _Richard_!”

Whatever Eleanor was about to say next was interrupted by the subject of their conversation, who uttered a string of incomprehensible words (the meaning of which was, however, quite clear) and spat at Richard with commendable accuracy.

Alistair would prefer to forget what Eleanor said to him next. In short, the matter was settled. He took Aeschine home with him to The Towers.

 

-o0o-

 

Since the demise of his parents, Alistair had lived alone at The Towers, save for McKenzie and his wife, whose services he had appeared to inherit along with the property.  McKenzie alternately hero-worshipped and gently bullied Alistair; Mrs Mac (as she had been known since the early days of her marriage) seemed oblivious to the fact that ‘the young master’ was a grown man in his early forties, and persisted in treating him as if he was seven.

It was, in all truth, a situation which suited Alistair perfectly, until the moment when he introduced Aeschine (who of course at that time had no name) as “a young woman who is to live here.”

Mrs Mac burst into tears, sobbing “Oh, Master Alistair, if your poor mother were still alive to see this day!”;  McKenzie himself, every inch the archetypal dour Scot, looked Aeschine up and down and said firmly “If that young person sets foot in this house, Mr Alistair, then my wife and I shall be leaving it. We’ll not be associated with such a class of person.”

Alistair glanced at the young woman beside him, and saw immediately where the problem lay.  Eleanor was somewhat more developed than Aeschine, and the gown, even on its original owner, had been cut low over the bosom.  It had slipped down over the girl’s slender figure, leaving nothing to the imagination.  Eleanor had  not seen fit to provide any undergarments.

He stepped behind the cause of the trouble and jerked the shoulders of her gown up, muttering “Cover yourself, my dear girl”. As he did so, she flinched as though he had hit her and shouted “I’m nae a whore, I’m nae!” before indulging in a fit of noisy hysterics.

The effect on Mrs Mac was beyond belief.  At the sound of the girl’s Scottish accent, her own tears were forgotten.  She took the young woman from Alistair, held her close and murmured “Of course you’re not, my dear, and nobody shall say that you are, else they’ll find themselves with me to answer to.  You come with me now, and we’ll have a nice cup of tea and you can tell me all about it while I find you something more suitable to wear.”

Her tone of voice suggested that Alistair himself had described the child as a street whore.

If the truth be told, neither Alistair nor John McKenzie would dare to gainsay Mrs Mac.  McKenzie looked at his master.

“It would appear, sir, that the matter is settled.  May I presume that the – young lady – is to live with us in the servants’ quarters?”

Alistair knew the tone of voice only too well.

“No, Mac. She will live here as – as my ward.”

McKenzie was not used to Alistair being firm with him.  He flushed.

“And she is to sleep - ?”

“In the second-best bedroom. Where else?”

McKenzie almost answered the question, but thought better of it.

“I’ll make sure the bed is aired.”

“If you would be so good.”

It was not often that Alistair got the better of his factotum. It was a moment to treasure.

 

-o0o-

 

He dined alone that night.  Mrs Mac appeared briefly, merely to explain that she had put “the poor young child” to bed and to voice her bewilderment.

“For I don’t know when and where you found her, Master Alistair, and neither, it seems, does she. From what she’s said she has no family – not even a name – and she cannot tell me a single thing about herself.  And she has the most terrible burn on her arm –like a cattle brand, almost. When I asked her about it all she would say was ‘They marked me for theirs, but I’ll not go back to them – I’ll not’. And then she started to cry again.”

_Those damned pirates._

Alistair sighed, and said gently “And that’s why she’ll have to live here, Mrs Mac.  Where else can she go?”

“She’s a terrible tongue on her, Master Alistair. I’ve never heard the like of her language in all my born days.”

Alistair considered for an instant that Mrs Mac must have heard such words before, for how else she would  have been known to be offended by them?  But this was hardly the time to tease her about it.

“She knows no better. But she’ll learn.”

 

-o0o-

 

He awoke suddenly in the early hours of the morning, unsure for a moment as to what was happening.

There was a terrible sound.

He was out of bed, fumbling for his slippers, before he consciously realised.

It was the girl, screaming.

 

-o0o-

 

When John McKenzie ran into the blue bedroom, it was to find his master, clad only in his nightshirt, sitting on the bed, holding the sobbing girl to him, gently rocking her.

“Hush, hush, little one. No-one is going to hurt you.  You’re quite safe. No-one is going to harm you. Hush now. No need to be frightened.”

He glanced up at McKenzie.

“A nightmare, I think.  Hot milk, if you would, with perhaps a splash of brandy. Hush now, my dear, you’re quite safe.”

He continued to rock the girl back and forth.

 _Hot milk and brandy for two_ , thought McKenzie, on his way to the kitchen.  _At this time of the morning. Screaming as though she were being attacked, and clinging onto the master. And the master sitting on her bed in nothing but his night attire. A fine state of affairs. Best fetch his dressing robe – some proprieties have to be satisfied._

 

-o0o-

 

During the days that followed, Alistair began to wonder quite what he had taken on. The nightmares continued sporadically and he began to visit the blue bedroom each evening once Aeschine was abed, reading to her until she fell asleep, sitting with her for some time afterwards in case she woke again. John McKenzie considered this to be quite scandalous. 

“Whatever your dear mother would have thought – “

“My dear mother would have done exactly the same, Mac.”

“Your dear mother was not a single man, Master Alistair!”

Alistair knew full well what the man meant, but it was such a ridiculous thing to say that he couldn’t help laughing.  McKenzie pretended to be offended, but the humour of it struck him as well.

He didn’t mention the number of times that he had taken the young mistress an early morning cup of tea, only to discover that Alistair was still sitting on the bed, fast asleep and with the girl held close in his arms. On those occasions John McKenzie tiptoed away, taking the cup and saucer with him, and sat on the top of the stairs listening for the sounds of Alistair going quietly back to his own room before the servant started his daily round of the house as though nothing untoward had happened.

Quite scandalous behaviour.

 

-o0o-

 

It was on Aeschine’s first morning at The Towers that she chose her name.

She knew what personal names were; she just had no idea what hers might be. When pressed, she said “I cannae remember. It’s been sae long since anyone called me by name” and Alistair, to his amazement, realised that he was very close to weeping for pity.

So long that she had forgotten what her very name was.

Dear Lord.

It had been a tiring morning – every possible name that he and Mrs Mac could think of was rejected with a quiet little “Nae” until he had found that book of old Scottish names and suddenly she’d picked out “Aeschine”.

He said gently “Is that familiar to you? Do you think that is your name?” and she’d thought for a moment and said “I dinnae think it’s mine, but I like the sound.”

It was an unusual name for an unusual girl, and therefore appropriate.

 

-o0o-

 

Mrs Mac dealt in her own quiet way with the mysteries of Aeschine’s wardrobe, leaving bills on Alistair’s desk at regular intervals. 

The costs astounded him, but at least the girl was now decently, if soberly, dressed.

He had no idea what item of clothing caused Aeschine to burst into hysterical cries of “I’ll nae wear it! I’ll nae!”, although he suspected that it could well have been the whalebone corset.

Her figure needed no support or suppression.

The devil take it, why was he even considering whether Aeschine should wear a corset?

He tried to forget that thought.

It refused to go away.

He bought her small items of clothing himself – nothing too personal:  gloves,  a shawl, the sort of article that could be quite innocently given as a gift - and considered suggesting to Mrs Mac that some brighter coloured gowns might not go amiss. Merely because the girl was his ward, there was surely no need for her to be dressed as drably as if she were being brought up in a convent.

 

-o0o-

 

The rest of Aeschine’s education was left to Alistair.

He was astounded by how much she needed to learn.  Not merely book learning -  he had realised on that first morning that she was completely illiterate – but the social graces as well. 

Her language was disgraceful and her table manners non-existent. When he had suggested to her that there was no need for her to eat as though she had not fed for a week, she said (with her mouth full) “If I wasnae hungry I wouldna eat, and when  I eat, I eat until my belly’s full.”

She was untidy, uncouth and ill-tempered.  At times she appeared terrified of him, as though in expectation that he would attack her (and who could blame her for that?); at times she was quiet and overly anxious to please him.

She was quite unlike any other woman he had ever met. She was tiresome, querulous and at times drove him to distraction.

He and McKenzie taught her to ride sidesaddle – an necessary accomplishment for any young lady in that age – and the sight of her laughing as she gave the old pony its head and cantered down the park made both men smile. McKenzie said quietly “At times like this, Mr Alistair, she’s worth all the trouble” and Alistair, well aware that he ought to reprimand his servant for the comment, could only agree.

She adored small animals.  The household rapidly learnt that if she were missing she could often be found in the stables, fussing over the stable cat’s kittens or the terrier’s pups.

She would not, however, walk in the grounds without company. She was terrified of the small passageway which ran between the kitchen and the walled fruit garden and which Mrs Mac found such a handy shortcut;  she would give no reason, but Alistair guessed that it reminded her of the passageways through which she had time travelled.

It was his constant fear that one day she would step into a passageway and disappear from his life. The reason, he told himself sternly, was his fear for her safety:  as she had no understanding of how she had managed to travel through time, she might return to a time and place where she already was and vanish from history for good.

In truth, he enjoyed her company. He found her both a distraction and a delight, and dreaded the day when she would leave his household, as she must.  Somewhere in time and space would be a man for whom Aeschine would leave him, whom she might even marry.

Aeschine, however, whilst confused as to Alistair’s motives for bringing her to his own time and space, and continuing to throw spectacular tantrums, seemed content to stay with him. Whilst seemingly enjoying the few travels that they made together, she showed no inclination to time travel alone, and certainly not by means of her own peculiar talents.  He had, one pleasant spring morning, suggested a picnic luncheon in the grounds. All had gone well until he showed her the baroque maze, planted originally by his great grandfather and thereafter the pride of the Wells family, thinking that it might amuse her.

She had refused point-blank to set foot in it.  He entered the maze himself, thinking this might reassure her that all was well, and turned to her, smiling and holding out his hand to her.

She burst into tears, wailing “Oh dinnae, dinnae – do ye not know it’s not safe? Can ye not feel it? Oh dinnae go in there and leave me here alone!”

The maze had never held any fears for Alistair, even when, as a small child,  he had been lost in its midst.  But to Aechine it was a thing of terror, a gateway to a place which she dreaded.

Aeschine – who in all truth he still hardly knew, and understood far less – or the maze which had been his ancestors’ pride and joy. It was not a choice he had to consider for long.

The next morning McKenzie finished uprooting the hedges which had once formed the intricate design of the maze. Once all trace of it had disappeared, Aeschine no longer showed any fear of the site and walked across it quite happily.

 _So_ , Alistair mused, _it is the passageways themselves, and not the mere place where they are. Once a passageway is destroyed, that gate to another time ceases to exist.  Useful to know how to destroy one – but can they be created so easily?  And how can I find out ? I can scarcely create a passage and send Aeschine into it just to discover if I’ve created a gateway. I cannot discover a gateway without her, and I cannot ask her to discover one without distressing her._

Or distressing himself, come to that. After the debacle with the maze, he and McKenzie had constructed patterns of winding pathways with coloured stones set in a bed of sand, creating double-backs and dead-ends, false trails and loops. It was, in effect, a maze without walls or hedges.

Aeschine loved it, playing happily for hours, following the patterns determinedly, delighted when she reached the centre.   She seemed to have solved the trick of it almost instantly, but enjoyed tracing the blind alleys and discovering where they led. It was, other than the lack of hedges, an exact copy of the original maze; but this one seemingly held no gateways, no entrances to strange lands.

_So: is it that a gateway cannot be created? Or does the creation require the presence of both the passageway and the place? And are gateways only of fleeting existence? She told me once “When you need a gateway, one appears” – are they then insubstantial? Do they appear and disappear of their own accord? Or is a third element required: passageway, place and person?  Does Aeschine have some particular talent, some natural ability to time travel, that enables her unwittingly to create her own gateways?_

The logical answer, of course, would be to create the pattern of stones on the site where the maze had once stood, and send Aeschine along the winding pathways.

The logical answer was, however, not one which he would seriously consider for a moment.

He recalled how terrified she had been by the maze, seemingly convinced that Time would somehow swallow him up and that he would never return.

_“Do ye not know it’s not safe? Dinnae go in there and leave me here alone!”_

She had seemed as concerned for him as she had been for herself.

He looked across to where she lay on the hearthrug, playing with the half-grown cat which she had smuggled indoors and, upon its discovery,  insisted that she be allowed to keep. And how could he refuse her? The cat was in all probability the only thing that she had ever known that loved her as unconditionally as she loved it.

He balled up the sheet of paper he had been scribbling on, and threw it towards the pair. The cat, recognising a new game, batted the paper away and began determinedly to hunt it around the room.

Aeschine rolled onto her side and looked up at him, laughing.

She laughed more often than she cried these days, he realised.

“Your cat has all the making of a good mouser – I think we’ll let her stay. She’ll earn her keep.”

She laughed again, knowing full well that there had never been any question of Cat being banished back to the stables. 

“An’ me? Have ye decided to let me stay, or do I have to earn my keep too?”

“You know full well, my dear, that you are welcome to live here as long as you wish. This is your home now.”

She looked at him quizzically.

“An’ _why_ am I here? Ye brought me here, but I dinnae know why. Ye dinnae seem to want me to be your whore, but how else should I earn my keep?”

_Dear Lord Almighty._

“Listen to me, Aeschine. I didn’t bring you here to be my whore, as you so charmingly put it, or to earn your keep – I brought you here to keep you safe, and because you needed somewhere to live. You needed to stop running, Aeschine, from whatever it is that you’re running from.  You shall live here for as long as you wish; you can leave at any time you wish. You do not have to earn your keep in any way whatsoever. And if there is another Time or place that you want to return to, to live in, you only have to tell me, and I shall take you there. Do you understand?”

Her face crumpled and she said “If I could only _remember._ I’ve tried and tried, but I cannae. I cannae remember even why I keep running – only that I must.  It’s terrible hard, Alistair, to know that ye cannae even remember your own name, much less anything else about yourself.”

_Tears again._

Alistair reached out his hand to her.

“Come here, child, and dry your eyes. There’s no need to get upset. You shall stop here as long as you want – until you do remember, and even after that.  And I shall look after you.  And there is no need for you to run away any more.”

She sniffed. Hoping to avoid a further outbreak of tears, he said gently “Now, I’ve been thinking. It’s about time we told Mrs Mac that you need some more gowns. I’m tired of seeing you in greys and browns.  Would you like that – some new gowns in pretty colours?”

She nodded, as readily distracted as a child.  She was, he realised, the easiest woman to please that he had ever met, the most frustrating, the most fascinating.

She was both his despair and his delight.

 


	2. Troubled Times (2)

The Time Society was unsympathetic to Alistair’s situation. Both Eleanor and Richard made it clear that they were of the mind that there could only be one possible reason why Alistair had brought Aeschine forward in time; Quincey was frankly terrified of her; Lulu was her usual scatterbrained self, obsessed with gossip and perceived romances. Alistair’s only confidante in these troubled times was Chauncey, who agreed with Alistair that he had taken the only course open to him.

Chauncey had not yet met Aeschine, and was curious to meet the young woman. Therefore when Alistair invited him to dine at The Towers – a rare occurrence, for Alistair kept his personal and his professional life strictly apart – Chauncey accepted eagerly.

“I say ‘dine’, Chauncey, but I’m afraid we keep strange hours these days.  Late luncheon would probably be a better description.”

 _“We keep strange hours”_ Chauncey thought, noting the personal pronoun.

“Delighted, dear boy, whatever hour of the day or night.  Is there any particular reason  - a birthday perhaps? – or are you inviting me in order to delight in my skill as a raconteur?”

 “I’d like you to meet Aeschine; I’d like Aeschine to meet _you_ – she scarcely sees anyone apart from myself and the servants. And, to be quite frank “  - for a moment his face changed – “I’d like some grown-up conversation for a change. You have no idea how wearing it is to be permanently cast in the role of school marm.”

 

-o0o-

 

Chauncey had just handed his hat to McKenzie, and was enquiring after the health of Mrs Mac, when from upstairs came the sound of a crash and a dreadful screaming.  McKenzie said wearily “The young mistress” and ran towards the staircase in a manner most undignified for a gentleman’s servant, Chauncey following close behind.

Chauncey had expected to discover some terrible accident: in fact he was in time to witness one of Aeschine’s tantrums.

She stood in the middle of the old schoolroom. The table was overturned, books lay scattered across the floor. She was screaming over and over at Alistair “I cannae and I willnae and ye cannae make me!", her voice growing higher with each repetition. As Chauncey watched, she grabbed an inkpot from the bookshelf and threw it at Alistair's head.

She missed, and the spilt ink added to the mess on the floor.

Alistair tried to grab her by the shoulders: as she twisted away from him, screaming all the while, he caught sight of Chauncey.

“The mantlepiece – quick.”

It was clear at a glance what he meant.  Chauncey picked up the small bottle and removed the cork.

While Aeschine struggled in Alistair’s grasp, the older man waved the vial under her nose.

She gave two loud whoops, hiccoughed once and subsided into tears.

Alistair gathered her in his arms and began to comfort her.

“There, there. You just had a tantrum and frightened yourself, didn’t you? No need for tears. You got frustrated because you couldn’t read the words, and then you had a tantrum. No need to be frightened.”

He glanced up at Chauncey.

“Sal Volatile. Wonderful stuff – we don’t know how we’d manage without it, do we, my dear?”

His tone of voice was gentle, almost conversational.

He returned to his comforting of Aeschine.

Embarrassed, Chauncey moved to pick up the table. McKenzie stopped him with a gentle hand on his sleeve.

“Pardon me, sir, but after we have one of our little turns, we clear up for ourselves. It’s one of our rules.”

By this time Aeschine, still sobbing, had her arms around Alistair’s neck. He appeared to be whispering in her ear.  They looked remarkably like a pair of lovers.

Chauncey moved towards the door, intending to return downstairs and pretend, for the young woman’s sake, that he had not just witnessed her behaviour.  Alistair caught the movement and shook his head.

“Stay, please.”

He disentangled Aeschine’s arms and turned her to face the older man.

“This, my dear, is Chauncey – one of my oldest friends. He’s come to meet you. “

Aeschine sniffed and looked at the floor.

“Now, Aeschine, I want you to tidy the room – it’s not fair on Mac and Mrs Mac to expect them to clear up your mess, is it? – and then go and wash your hands and face and join us downstairs in the dining room.”

Aeschine muttered – all one word – “Cannaea’haemadinnerdooni’thekitchen?”

“I’m sorry, my dear, I didn’t quite understand that. Would you be so good as to say it again?”

She sniffed again, looked up at him and said, a little more distinctly “P- please may I have my dinner in the kitchen wi’ Mister and Mrs Mac?”

He ruffled her hair and said firmly “No, my dear. We have a guest. You’ll dine with us. Now run along with Mac, and he’ll find you some rags to clean that ink up with.”

 

-o0o-

 

Alistair and Chauncey stood by the French windows, looking out onto the croquet lawn. Alistair said quietly “That was entirely my fault, Chauncey, and I hope that you’ll forgive me. I should have known better than to try to give Aeschine a reading lesson this morning, of all days. It was all too much for her.”

Chauncey, sipping his Manzanilla, thought for a moment.

“Is she always so – excitable?”

“Temperamental, you mean? It happens less and less. You were unfortunate to see one of her more spectacular displays, although it can’t hold a candle to the time she threw a schoolroom chair through the window and tried to set fire to her books.  You wouldn’t have thought she could have managed it: the windows have bars across the lower half. She’s like a wild thing, Chauncey, and she needs careful handling.  Too tight a hand on the reins and her spirit’s broken. Too loose a hand, and she’s out of control.”

“You seem to be able to calm her down.”

Alistair stared into the distance.

“You’d almost think I knew what I was doing,wouldn’t you? The trick would be to stop her getting over-excited in the first place. But she is getting better, Chauncey, I swear it.”

He sounded almost desperate to be believed.

Chauncey wondered about the exact nature of the relationship between Alistair and Aeschine. It was a delicate area, and he was pondering how to phrase the question, when the door opened. The two men swung round.

Aeschine stood quietly in the doorway. She had changed her gown for one the colour of autumn leaves. Round her neck hung a necklace of Baltic amber, which Alistair had brought back for her from his recent travels. 

He recognised the signs. She had dressed to please him.  It was the nearest he was likely to get to an apology.

She stood stock-still. Alistair held out his hand towards her.

“Come in, my dear, and let me introduce you. This is my friend Chauncey – Chauncey, this is Aeschine.”

It was an informal introduction, completely inappropriate. Chauncey wondered for a moment why Alistair, whose manners were normally so impeccable, had broken with all convention – then he realised.

The girl who now called herself Aeschine had no memory of her true name. In all probability she had never had a surname. A formal introduction was therefore impossible.

Aeschine smiled shyly at him and he smiled back.

“I’m very pleased to meet you, my dear. “

Alistair interjected. “We have a little time before we eat: as you can see, Chauncey and I are enjoying a glass of sherry wine. Would you care for a little Manzanilla, or would you prefer cordial?”

Aeschine looked momentarily non-plussed. She was trying to puzzle out the right answer. Alistair had promised her that nothing would happen to upset or confuse her, but here he was offering her a choice, and she didn’t know what she should do, which she should pick.  Was it a test? Would she disappoint him if she gave the wrong answer? She began to flounder.

“I – I –"

Smooth as silk, Chauncy leaned towards her and said “Try the Manzanilla, my dear. It’s very pleasant, and not terribly strong. And if you do, that will give me an excuse to have a second glass, which I can’t if you choose cordial.”

He didn’t particularly want another sherry, but Aeschine was immediately at her ease. She followed his cue and said quietly “Ye’ve made my choice. I’ll be pleased to take a drink wi’ ye, Mister Chauncey.”

“Just Chauncey, my dear. No need to stand on ceremony with me.”

 

-o0o-

 

It was one of the strangest meals which Chauncey had ever seen served, but none the  less interesting for all that.

They sat at the top of the long dining table, Chauncey next to Aeschine and Alistair opposite both of them. The chair at the end of the table – traditionally occupied by the head of the house - stood empty.

Chauncey was wondering more and more about the household – had Alistair become some sort of eccentric, breaking with all conventions? – when  Aeschine’s hand slowly moved towards the wrong drinking glass. He would have ignored this completely; but he noticed Aeschine glance at Alistair, who blinked slowly. Aeschine immediately picked up the correct glass.

By sitting opposite Aeschine, Alistair had created a situation whereby he could imperceptibly signal to her, confirming whether her proposed action was acceptable or not.

 _A neat trick_ , Chauncey thought. _Very smoothly done._

The meal itself was peculiar.  There was no entree, and the main dish was rabbit iwith a curried sauce. That in itself was unremarkable – but Chauncey was unused to curry served in a soup plate. He made no comment; nor did he show any sign of surprise when John McKenzie removed the cover of a large serving dish and proceeded to carve slices from something which appeared to be a large boiled pudding.

Alistair leant forward.

“We are both fond of suet dumpling with curry” he said, smoothly.

_Are you now? Well, if that be the truth, you’ve changed remarkably from the gourmand you were a matter of mere months ago._

McKenzie, meanwhile, was serving Aeschine with slices of the ‘delicacy’. He appeared to be lining the sides of her soup plate with it, and Chauncey had a good idea why.

He decided to play along.

“As indeed am I. A good curry’s not complete without a slice of suet pud, we used to say” he lied, and Alistair smiled at him gratefully.

In all truth, he had rarely eaten anything he disliked as much.  Alistair, he noticed, ate little of the pudding, and that as the first few mouthfuls, as if to get it out of the way as soon as possible;  Aeschine ate all of hers, but only when no more curry remained in her plate. It was as he had had suspected – she clearly had difficulty in handling the cutlery. By serving her meal in the soup plate, lined with slices of the dreadful pudding, a means had been created by which she could push the food onto her fork in much the same way as an infant learns to feed itself by means of a pusher and spoon.

Alistair continued to smile and nod at Aeschine, and she relaxed noticeably under his approval.  It was difficult to recognise the screaming hysteric of a few hours earlier in the restrained young woman seated demurely at Chauncey’s side.

She had made little conversation throughout the main course, and Chauncey decided to let her concentrate on one thing at a time. Difficult enough to feed yourself and mind your manners, without having to talk to a bumbling old fool as well.  _A light hand,_ Alistair had said, and that clearly included a light load.

He wondered at the enormity of the task which Alistair had taken on, and pondered again the exact nature of the relationship.  A lesser man might well have packed Aeschine off to an Industrial School to learn a trade; indeed, a lesser man might well have had her committed to an asylum as soon as he witnessed the first hysterical outburst. 

McKenzie cleared the plates away, smooth and efficient as ever.

The following course was a luridly coloured dessert, served in individual glasses and eaten with teaspoons. Aeschine brightened considerably when McKenzie placed hers in front of her, murmuring audibly  “Your favourite, Miss Aeschine.”

Neither Chauncey nor Alistair had ever had a sweet tooth, and the concoction was particularly sugary. The two men toyed with their portions, eating as little as possible: Aeschine joyfully devoured hers, managing glass and teaspoon with ease.  Once again the course had clearly been chosen to cause her no embarrassment.

As the dessert glasses were cleared away, and cheese and water biscuits brought to the table, Alistair suddenly began to talk.

“Aeschine has a great knowledge of herb-lore, Chauncey. We were walking in the garden the other day when she started to tell me the names of the various plants and their uses. I’m no expert in that field, as you’re well aware, and most of what she knows was completely new to me.”

As he spoke, he was busy slicing cheese: a gross breach of etiquette.  The cheese board should, of course, have been offered to Chauncey, as guest; he would then have offered it to Aeschine, as the sole lady present, to select her choice first. Alistair, as host, should have been the last person to take anything from the board.

There was clearly a reason for this behaviour. Chauncey continued to observe with interest.

By this time the younger man was talking of the healing properties of herbs, buttering water biscuits in an abstracted fashion.  Suddenly he stopped.

“I must apologise for my appalling manners. I meant to cut a little cheese for you, Aeschine, but I’m afraid that I got carried away. Do forgive me. Would you care for this?”

Aeschine said quietly "Aye",  and Alistair handed  her the plate.  It held five small water biscuits, each topped with a cube of cheese. Perhaps not the most subtle sleight of hand in the world, but it had distracted attention away from a young woman who, presumably, found it difficult to butter a biscuit daintily or to wield a cheese-knife.

The cheese board passed to Chauncey, who began to select his favourite from amongst the cheeses; Alistair, still acting contritely, poured more wine. Aeschine, who had said very little at all so far, suddenly spoke. She sounded unsure of herself.

“Can – may I say something to ye both?”

Alistair smiled. “Of course you may, my dear.”

She swallowed hard.

“I – I should like to say sorry to the both of ye for my – my disgraceful behaviour this morning an’” – she turned to Chauncey “I’m verra sorry that ye had to witness it an’ ye must think I’m a wicked ungrateful girl.”

She sounded very close to tears.

Alistair said gently “Not wicked or ungrateful in the least. And thank you for the apology: it’s very handsome of you. It’s not easy to say sorry and I’m very proud of you for doing so.  Now, have you made your apologies to Mac and Mrs Mac?”

She nodded.

“I have, an’ Mister Mac had a long talk to me, an’ told me I should ap-apologise to the two of ye,  but I would hae done so even if he’d not said so, I would really, an’–“

Her voice was rising again. Alistair headed off any histrionics by saying “I know you would have done. Don’t upset yourself.”

She took a deep breath and said “When ye’ve finished your cheese, would ye ring the bell for Mister and Mrs Mac? An’ then I can apologise to them again an’ ye’ll know I’ve done so and they’ll know I’ve really said sorry to ye, an’-”

“There’s no need to keep torturing yourself over this, Aeschine.”

She said quietly “It would make me feel better” and it was Chauncey’s turn to nod at Alistair.

 

-o0o-

 

Aeschine certainly had a flair for self immolation.  Had she belonged to a more sophisticated time, Chauncey would have suspected that it was all a facade, contrived to attract sympathy and tolerance; but she was too naive for that.

She rose to her feet as the McKenzies entered the dining room and said rapidly “I’m sae very sorry for all the trouble I put you to, an’ thank ye for my lovely dinner wi’ all my favourite things tae eat” (at which point Chauncey had to suppress a shudder of sympathy for Alistair’s palate, if not for his digestion) “an’ for looking after me, an’ I dinnae mean to be a wicked girl an’–“

At which point she burst into tears again. Alistair said quietly “Like Niobe, all tears” and this time it was Mrs Mac who put her arm around Aeschine and said “Now, now. You’re not wicked in the least. Whatever made you think that? Now come down the kitchen and we’ll leave the gentlemen to their wine and cigars, and in a little while we’ll make their coffee and you can bring it to them and serve it just like the lady of the house should.”

She led Aeschine away, and Mac placed a box of cigars between Alistair and Chauncey before himself disappearing into the mysteries of the servants’ quarters.

Alistair poured a little more wine, and the two friends sat and smoked in silence for a while. Eventually Alistair said quietly “She’s worth it, you know” and Chauncey wondered to himself exactly what Alistair was talking about. He said “It can’t be easy for her” (which seemed to have a multitude of meanings) and Alistair, letting the mask slip for a moment, said “It’s not particularly easy for any of us.”

There was another silence, this time the easy sort that exists between two longstanding friends who just don’t need to say anything to each other at that particular time. After a while Alistair said “It’s true about the herbs, you know. She knows an amazing amount. She’s – she’s not a fool.”

It was a cry for reassurance, and Chauncey responded immediately.

“Of course she’s not. She’s living in a different time and place, and she’s having to adjust. That’s what I meant when I said it couldn't be easy for her. She must be frightened and unsure of herself, and because of that she panics and has outbursts like she did earlier. For what it’s worth, I think you handled that scene in the school-room perfectly.  And you said yourself that her tantrums happen less and less often.”

Relief shone from Alistair’s face.

“If – if only you knew how relieved I am to hear you say that. Apart from the Macs, you’re the only person I know who doesn’t think that I ought to dump her right back on Shanghai Dock.”

“Then no-one else has bothered to consider her and how she must feel. She’s a very pretty and intelligent young woman who needs help to settle into her new life. And that is going to take time. Now, to change the subject somewhat – may I ask if she would show me round your garden in a little while and tell me about your herbs?  And perhaps you would care to bring her to my garden to see mine? I have a feeling that her knowledge may prove very useful indeed.”

The door opened, and Aeschine said shyly “Would ye like your coffee in the library?” She turned her head to look over her shoulder, and they heard her  whisper – presumably to the person standing behind her – “Was that the right thing tae say?”

Alistair laughed.

“Exactly right, my dear. The perfect hostess.  Lead the way, please. Now, do tell – did you make the coffee yourself?”

He was teasing her gently. She smiled at him happily.

“Well, I ground the beans for Mrs Mac an’ she made the coffee, but there’s biscuits for ye, an’ I made them for ye wi’ my very own hands an’ - oh! I wasnae supposed to tell ye that until ye’d tasted them an’ asked me if Mrs Mac had made them an’ then I was supposed tae tell ye verra modestly that they were of my own making, an –“

Alistair grinned at Chauncy.

“Mercurial, you see. Still, she keeps us on our toes.”

 

-o0o-

 

Later they walked in the herb garden, Chauncey and Aeschine excitedly talking herb lore, Alistair content to listen to her prattle.

He visited her room that evening as usual. She sat propped against her pillows, the copy of Child’s Ballads on her lap, ready for him to read to her. 

He had chosen the book for the simplicity of each ballad, and had been pleasantly surprised by how many of them she knew. Often they would recite them together, their voices only differing when her version used different words, or she knew additional verses.

That night they chose the ballad of the Grey Silkie of Suleskerry, and Alistair’s voice died away as he let Aeschine weave the tale for him.

Afterwards he told her of the Orkney legends of the seals that became men and walked upon the land.

When he had finished they sat in silence for a while.

After a while she said quietly “I’m a dreadful sore trial for ye, Alistair Wells. Ye must rue the day ye found me.”

He reached out for her hand.

“Never that.“

She smiled up at him.

“I think I’ll sleep well this even. Nae need for ye tae sit up to chase the night demons away from me.”

He brought her hand up to his lips briefly.

“Then I shall wish you a good night.”

As he left her room, she said sleepily “An’ thank ye for everything ye do for me, Alistair.”

Moments like that were worth the hours of frustration and worry.

 

-o0o-

 

Very carefully, he raises the last of the shaving lather from his chin with the tip of his razor.

_She keeps me on my toes, and no mistake._

She is the easiest woman to please that he has ever met, the most frustrating, the most fascinating.

She is both his despair and his delight.

And yesterday he had kissed her – which he shouldn’t have done – and she had responded – which had astounded and delighted him – and – well, perhaps “propositioned” was a little too strong a word for what she’d asked him, but it wasn’t that far out.

_Sweet Jesus, Wells, you’re a lucky man._

_And exactly where do we go from here?_

He remembers the old saying, _“May you live in interesting times.”_ It is both a blessing and a curse.

He grins at himself in the mirror.

Wherever the road takes them, it won’t be a boring journey. Not with Aeschine.

**Author's Note:**

> Intended as a short backstory to the first tale in this series, this one proved to be much more complex than I thought.


End file.
